Hooptedoodle #329 - The Ascent of Schlimm - Part (2) of an occasional series

The Grand Duke yawned, and as he did so he realised that he had actually dozed off for a moment. It was very warm in the room. He opened his eyes and jumped with fright - there, on the other side of his enormous desk, stood his Minister of Finance, young Edelbert Schlimm.

"What a fright you gave me, Schlimm! - I was pondering the matter of the floral theme for this year's Watchmakers' Guild Festival. I thought perhaps daffodils?"

"Highness, we did daffodils last year. In fact, I believe it has been daffodils every year for the last eleven festivals - something to do with avoiding the cost of repainting the floats."

"Ah yes - as I recall there was only one float involved last year, with the Schweinheim Children's Choir - what happened to the rest of the processional vehicles?"

"The festival has been downsized, Highness, since there are no longer any watchmakers and only 27 people attended the last one, including the parents of the choir."

"Yes - now I remember. All right - why don't we go for daffodils this year?"

"Excellent idea, Highness."

The Grand Duke stared at his Minister, musing over the remarkable change in his appearance in recent months. He was impeccably suited and groomed, his shirt and his shoes were hand-made, in his lapel he wore the scarlet and white silk ribbon of the Grand Knight's Cross of the Order of Sankt Tobias and - the Grand Duke winced to observe - he had a discreet diamond stud in his left ear. He was also surprisingly suntanned, considering it was only April and the fog and rain of what passed for Spring in the Duchy did not usually cause sunburn.

"Reminds me - I sent for you. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, Highness, I have been very busy."

The Grand Duke frowned.

"But I sent for you over a week ago, where have you been?"

Schlimm was impassive.

"Complicated - mostly I've been in Dubai, I think. Yes - mostly Dubai. What was it you wanted?"

"A number of things I was concerned about - if you hold on a moment, I have a written note here somewhere."

Pushing his reading glasses back up his nose with his index finger, the Grand Duke scrabbled around among the chaos on his desk for a few seconds, and produced a crumpled scrap of paper, which he smoothed out and studied for a little while.

"Right," he said, "for a start, who are all these foreigners wandering about the castle? They are frightening the kitchen staff, and last week a couple of them walked in here and started measuring things. Never said anything, just wrote down some notes and sketched drawings in an exercise book. I was trying to watch TV. Are they here to redecorate?"

"No, Highness - they are here in connection with the sale and lease-back agreement I told you about."

"You never told me any such thing, not that I remember - also these fellows don't speak any German - they're English, I think. What's going on?"

"I apologise, Highness, I was sure we had discussed the matter. The castle is far too big for the needs of your family; the idea is that we sell the place for redevelopment - you and the Ducal Family and your immediate entourage will live in a modern apartment in the West Wing, with a nice view across the swamp."

"But my family have lived here for many centuries, Schlimm - what is to happen to the place? - and what about all the paintings, and the furniture, and the collection of ceremonial armour, and the stuffed animals, and everything else? This is my personal history, our glorious heritage."

Schlimm bowed slightly.

"With respect, Highness, personal history is a luxury appropriate only to those who can afford it. I am expecting a report from the preliminary survey shortly, so we may discuss it then, if that suits you. The current suggestion is that the remainder of the castle buildings will be developed as luxury apartments. The architects are very interested in the paintings and the other artifacts - if there is anything they can't use they have offered to sell it for us on eBay. There are various ideas for the use of the Great Park - I am trying to retain a small garden for you and the Duchess. They may even stretch to a greenhouse."

The Grand Duke passed a shaking hand over his haggard face.

"A greenhouse? I remember none of this, Graf Edelbert. Have you mentioned it to the Duchess? Is she in favour of these plans?"

"The Duchess has been away skiing since before the discussions started, Highness - I had hoped you might raise the matter with her when she returns? There are also some interesting ideas involving the sale of her hunting lodges to an American hotel chain. The concept is that they would make very attractive health spas."

The Grand Duke removed his glasses and closed his eyes - he really did not feel well at all.

"Schlimm, I think I'm going to have to rest for a while. Before you leave, can I just mention the subject of beer?"

"Beer, Highness? - shall I get you a beer?"

"No, Schlimm, I just need you to explain something to me. Recently I suddenly fancied a beer - haven't had one for a while - and asked old Tauber to bring me a bottle of the Alter Drosselberger, my favourite. It was horrible - like horse urine. Also, the label was in English. I was so upset I rang a phone number which was printed on the label, and I got through to a helpdesk which I think was in India."

"Well, Highness, the Alter Drosselberger is selling very well, the brewing company is one of our more successful enterprises. I am sorry if you received a bad bottle."

"But we used to make the finest beer in Europe, one of the few things of which we could still be proud - it won international medals and everything. Good God, Schlimm, I own this brewery - my family has owned it since the 17th Century. I am going to visit the place and find out what's going on - I shall sort them out, you'll see - tradition still counts for something!"

Schlimm stared at his immaculate shoes, and aligned the crease in his Italian trousers.

"In fact, Highness, you are not strictly the owner of the brewing firm these days. You do retain a minority stake in the company, but you have only 15% of the voting shares. My brother and I have 80% between us. The actual Blickhof brewery is long gone - it is now a shopping mall and an indoor swimming pool and sports centre. The recipe for the beer was updated to cater for modern tastes, and the contract for production of the stuff is the subject of a tender every two years. Recently there has been a change - for a while the beer was being made and bottled in Burton on Trent, but it has now moved to a firm in Turda, Romania. No doubt it will move again if we get a more competitive offer."

There was a silence. The Grand Duke sat with his eyes closed for a while, and Schlimm was beginning to wonder if he had fallen asleep again when he eventually spoke, slowly and without any discernible emotion.

"I really do not understand. The fact that we made the best beer in Europe was crucially important - it was a source of national pride, and it was a noble tradition. This is not just a matter of revenue or earnings yields, it is a question of self-respect, and of ethics. If we can get our beer made more cheaply elsewhere, so that you and your brother make even more money, then I congratulate you, but I think you have missed the point. If I phone up to complain about the horse urine beer, I speak to a man in India and we cannot understand each other. That sums up exactly how much we have come to care about our customers and our traditions. I am appalled."

Schlimm smiled condescendingly, but the old man did not see him because his eyes were still shut.

"Your ideas, Highness, are as traditional and as outmoded as is much else about the Duchy and the way it runs. 'Pride in our product' is a very old-fashioned philosophy. Nowadays commercial ventures exist only to make as much money as possible for their owners. That is their primary - arguably their only - function. If our beer really tastes like horse urine then we will sell less of it, and we will make less money - that's when we know we have to do something about it. That is how it works nowadays. Your ideas of quality and pride are worthy and they do you credit, but, like the dinosaurs, they are things of the past. If you can get no help from our helpdesk number, then you should be delighted that you are dealing with a company which wastes as little money as possible on such matters..."

He broke off here, his voice ending on something of a squeak, because the Grand Duke had taken an old army revolver from his desk drawer, and was very deliberately taking aim at him.

The redevelopers are here

Acting Up - Dressing Up?

A colonel - dressed as regulations

This is probably going to be rather a stupid post - which is not unusual in itself - but it comes from something which a friend told me years ago, which at the time I dismissed as probably incorrect, but I thought I would return to the topic again, in case anyone can offer some thoughts.

The context, all those years ago, was exactly the same as it is now. My long standing fascination with the Battle of Salamanca has been the great underlying theme for the building of my wargames armies. The first useful book I had on the subject, back in the 1970s, was Lawford and Young's Wellington's Masterpiece - much criticised subsequently, but still an excellent read if you can find a copy.

In the Appendix which gives the breakdown of the French army, a number of question marks appear as brigade commanders, since these brigades were commanded on the day by the senior colonel, the general being otherwise occupied - examples are:

(a) the 2nd Brigade of 7th Division - this would normally have been GdB Thomières' brigade, but Thomières was in temporary command of the Division, since GdD Souham was elsewhere. Thomières had an exceptionally trying day at Salamanca, and was mortally wounded. [Under the general heading of "what if?"- if Souham had been present he would have been by far the most senior of Marmont's division commanders, so he would have been the correct 2-i-C to take command when Marmont was wounded, which - of course - wouldn't have happened because Marmont would not have had to get on his horse to ride over to see where the blazes Thomières thought he was marching off to.]

Anyway, the point is that Lawford and Young's question mark in this case should have explained that the commander for the day was Col. d'Herbez-Latour of the 101eme Ligne.

(b) The 1st Brigade of Pierre Boyer's Dragoon Division - the question mark in this case is Colonel Piquet, of the 6eme Dragons - a right old firebrand.

The Appendix in the book should also have had a couple more question marks, to be pedantic about it:

(c) GdB Carrié [de Boissy] of the 2nd Brigade of this same Dragoon Division was not present - he had been seriously wounded four days before Salamanca, and was a prisoner - he spent the rest of the war in Bridgenorth, Shropshire, apparently. On 22nd July the Brigade Carrié was commanded by Col. Boudinhon-Valdec of 15eme Dragons.

(d) GdD Brenier (6th Division) was not present at Salamanca - his place at the head of the Division was taken by GdB Taupin, whose brigade was probably commanded by the colonel of the 65eme Ligne.

And so on - the point (which, predictably, I have made at excessive length) is that this was a commonplace event - regimental officers would regularly be found acting up to replace more senior officers who were absent.

Going back many years, a friend of mine once showed me a picture of a French Napoleonic colonel, who appeared to be wearing some kind of sash - my friend reckoned that if the colonel was required to take charge of a brigade he would be provided with a sash as a badge of office.

Personally, I find that unlikely - officers in the French army gained a general's sash by putting their lives on the line and distinguishing themselves in action for years - such things would not be handed out on loan, surely. What about the brigade staff, though? - if this was a temporary situation, one would expect the brigade staff to be available to support the colonel. Presumably the ADCs would just wear the armbands appropriate to the rank of their usual boss?

Not a matter of any importance, but in the near future I need to paint up a couple of colonels to take charge of brigades (round about the time of the Battle of Salamanca, as it happens). I can just paint up a vanilla colonel, of course, but if there should be some identifying tweak of uniform I'd be pleased to reproduce it.

Hooptedoodle #328

***** Late Edit *****

To balance things a bit, my compliments to the BBC, for the most relaxing report on B****t I've seen so far - please enjoy...

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Hooptedoodle #327 - The Inevitable Herring

Something has been niggling me this last couple of weeks. Something not quite remembered, but somehow familiar, if I could just put my finger on it.

I finally remembered a few days ago. In about 1970 I saw a film, Spring and Port Wine, which starred James Mason - good film, in fact - of its time. A gritty domestic comedy set in Bolton (Lancashire, industrial North West of England), written by the excellent Bill Naughton. [It is interesting to recall, in passing, that James Mason was born in Huddersfield, so, even though he was always Rommel really, he did have some credentials for a provincial role.]

Anyway - Mason plays a well-intentioned but domineering father - very heavy - and things come to a bit of a head when his teenage daughter (played by Susan George) turns up her nose one evening at the herring which is served up for her tea. With much preaching about how lucky she is to have a herring at all, and how many people would be delighted to have such a herring, the father decrees that it will be served up again tomorrow, and the next day - there will be no choice. The damned herring will appear daily (presumably) until she eats it.

Any bells ringing? At the time, we all thought the father was a bit pig-headed, but what did we know? Nowadays, this would be regarded as a valid negotiation, apparently. You will be offered the same fish every day until you realise how wrong you have been to refuse it, or until the alternatives become so unbearably awful that you change your mind.

I can't remember how the story line developed - must watch it again - I can't recall if there was a backstop Plan B to cover the possibility that she never ate it. Presumably the father knew he was right, and that right would prevail. Strength and stability.

Must try and get hold of the film - I need to remind myself what happened...  

***** (Very) Late Edit ***** 

OK - OK - a number of people sent me chasers - it seems that they, too want to know what happened in the end. Very sketchy synopsis follows.

Things become more tense, the herring disappears, mysteriously, both daughters leave home (the younger one, she with the herring problem, turns out to be pregnant). The mother pawns the father's best overcoat to get some cash for the younger daughter, the father finds out, goes ballistic and the mother moves out too.

Not before time, the father has some kind of inspirational moment, and he determines to change - he realises that his family are far more important than his principles. The film ends before he makes much progress, but we can see where he's headed.

As for the herring, it seems likely that the kid brother gave it to the cat. At this point, I'm struggling to sustain the extended analogy, so let's drop the matter and get back to the bunker.

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French Refurb project - Fettling & Filing

I'm trying to speed up progress with getting my various heaps of French infantry refurbed. I'll use a painting service to help with this, since otherwise I am likely to be outfaced by the size of the task, and to hide in a corner somewhere and wait for it to go away.

Not suitable for children under 3 years old.

As a background job I work away on restoring the pre-painted rank and file, but progress has been disappointing lately - it would give me a big lift to get some of this stuff finished and in The Cupboard - it would also ease some of my storage problems.

Over the last few years I've accumulated yet another pile of pre-owned French infantry - mostly Les Higgins and Der Kriegsspieler, but some Hinton Hunts and other things too. I've now organised my ideas on this lot so that I'm aiming at a definite number of battalions - I have mentioned this number to friends, and the reaction is usually rather uneasy laughter, so I shan't mention it today. The big shortfall is in command figures and Higgins flank company chaps. For the HH and DK battalions I have some suitable command figures already in the spares box, but it's mostly going to be SHQ/Kennington to fill the gaps; for the Higgins battalions I have a decent number of the Higgins officers (all standing pointing, foot on a mole-hill), and will make up the shortfall with Art Miniaturen, Qualiticast and also Schilling, who make some very nice voltigeur/grenadier figures which are a nice match for Higgins.

I'm scratching away at a first shipment to go to the painter - command figures for light infantry and line infantry. As long as there's plenty of decent music and coffee, time spent grinding off spare metal and stabbing myself with needle files is not as bad as I think it's going to be - and it will be a relief to get stuff away to the painter. First package should go away at the end of this week - probably about 4 dozen castings, counting a mounted colonel as 2.

Hi ho! Ouch.

Hooptedoodle #326 - Missing Pips - Today's Pointless Conundrum

This is a puzzle that occurs to me at almost exactly 7am each day. Just how exactly is, I guess, the essence of the puzzle.

I have a digital radio next to my bed (it's actually the one that used to be in the kitchen, until the volume knob became temperamental - you know how it goes). At 6am each day it switches on BBC Radio 4 - the "Today" programme on weekdays - so that I may update myself on the latest glories of Brexit and Trump and all the other things which guarantee that I may start my day as depressed as possible. At 7am it switches off - the assumption being that either I'm already up and functioning, or else I have probably had enough delight and happiness for one morning.

The reality, of course, is that I have set the menu on the radio so that BBC R4 will come on at 06:00 and switch off at 07:00. The radio knows what time it is because the exact time is transmitted constantly along with the programme signal - so you would expect that to be pretty accurate. I mean, we are speaking of the speed of light here.

Astonishing, really - in the digital age we just expect everything to be spot on. It's worth remembering that it was only the coming of the railways which necessitated some standardisation of clocks throughout Britain, and, before that, the coming of scheduled stagecoaches was a big push towards standardisation of the calendar - prior to that it didn't matter a huge amount if your village had a different date from the village down the road. Now we have so much accuracy we can't even remember why it's important.

I digressed there - sorry.

The point of my post is that each morning the radio switches itself off just as the "pips" of the time signal are being broadcast. I don't know much about the pips, really, except that they've always been part of listening to the radio - even when it was a wireless. Six pips - 5 short ones and a long one - like this...

Originally, I think these were generated by the Greenwich observatory, but for the past 30 years or so they have just been a service provided by the BBC - they are timed exactly so that the long final pip indicates the start of the next hour.

Here's the 8am signal - impressively accurate

Because my radio is busy switching itself off at just about the time the BBC are broadcasting the 7-o'clock pips, I only hear the start of the sequence - I never hear the sixth pip. OK - we may debate accuracy and stuff like that, but the number of pips I hear before the radio cuts out varies. Yes - that's right - calm yourself now - I don't think it's anything to worry about, but the number of pips I get to hear varies mostly (randomly) between two and four - very rarely five. Never six. The BBC, which ensures accurate precision of the timing of the sixth pip and which broadcasts the time continuously so that my radio knows exactly where we are up to - yes, that BBC - manages to either fool my radio very slightly or get the timing of the audio signal slightly wrong - maybe both - every morning.

A couple of seconds is near enough for me, of course, but I don't really see how this works. Is it possible that there is some buffering or delay in the programme transmission? - I have occasionally noticed that if you switch two DAB radios to the same station they may not be quite in sync - this is especially true, I find, if you listen to the digital radio service on your TV at the same time as the same station is connected via the DAB unit.

Anyone understand how this works? Is it possible that the BBC are going to the trouble of broadcasting an exact time signal which isn't actually accurate by the time it reaches the listener? Imagine the potential chaos - stagecoaches could be crashing into each other at crossroads all over the country.

Disaster.

It'll all end in tears

Anyone know how this works? 

Hooptedoodle #325 - The Worry of Being British

My wife passed me this - if you have seen it before, apologies. I have no idea where it comes from, but it is of rather higher quality than most similar efforts, and it is so long since any aspect of Britishness made me actually smile that I thought it might be worth sharing.

The theme, of course, is the list of behaviours that being British forces on us - tick them off if they apply, but don't tell anyone what you're doing, naturally...

The Worry of Being British

• Worrying you’ve accidentally packed 3 kilos of cocaine and a dead goat as you stroll through “Nothing to declare”

• Being unable to stand and leave without first saying “right”

• Not hearing someone for the third time, so just laughing and hoping for the best

• Saying “anywhere here’s fine” when the taxi’s directly outside your front door

• Being sure to start touching your bag 15 minutes before your station, so the person in the aisle seat is fully prepared for your exit

• Repeatedly pressing the door button on the train before it’s illuminated, to assure your fellow commuters you have the situation in hand

• Having someone sit next to you on the train, meaning you’ll have to eat your crisps at home

• The huge sense of relief after your perfectly valid train ticket is accepted by the inspector

• The horror of someone you only half know saying: “Oh I’m getting that train too”

• “Sorry, is anyone sitting here?” – Translation: Unless this is a person who looks remarkably like a bag, I suggest you move it

• Loudly tapping your fingers at the cashpoint, to assure the queue that you’ve asked for money and the wait is out of your hands

• Looking away so violently as someone nearby enters their PIN that you accidentally dislocate your neck

• Waiting for permission to leave after paying for something with the exact change

• Saying hello to a friend in the supermarket, then creeping around like a burglar to avoid seeing them again

• Watching with quiet sorrow as you receive a different haircut from the one you requested

• Being unable to pay for something with the exact change without saying “I think that’s right”

• Overtaking someone on foot and having to keep up the uncomfortably fast pace until safely over the horizon

• Being unable to turn and walk in the opposite direction without first taking out your phone and frowning at it

• Deeming it necessary to do a little jog over zebra crossings, while throwing in an apologetic mini wave

• Punishing people who don’t say thank you by saying “you’re welcome” as quietly as possible

• The overwhelming sorrow of finding a cup of tea you forgot about

• Turning down a cup of tea for no reason and instantly knowing you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake

• Suddenly remembering your tea and necking it like a massive, lukewarm shot

• Realising you’ve got about fifty grand’s worth of plastic bags under your kitchen sink

• “You’ll have to excuse the mess” – Translation: I’ve spent seven hours tidying in preparation for your visit

• Indicating that you want the last roast potato by trying to force everyone else to take it

• “I’m off to bed” – Translation: “I’m off to stare at my phone in another part of the house”

• Mishearing somebody’s name on the second time of asking, meaning you must now avoid them forever

• Leaving it too late to correct someone, meaning you must live with your new name forever

• Running out of ways to say thanks when a succession of doors are held for you, having already deployed ‘cheers’, ‘ta’ and ‘nice one’

• Changing from ‘kind regards’ to just ‘regards’, to indicate that you’re rapidly reaching the end of your tether

• Staring at your phone in silent horror until the unknown number stops ringing

• Hearing a recording of your own voice and deciding it’s perhaps best never to speak again

• The relief when someone doesn’t answer their phone within three rings and you can hang up

• Filming an entire fireworks display on your phone, knowing full well you’ll never, ever watch it again



***** Late Edit *****

Interesting - my unofficial publicist, Tango01, the famed international masturbator and creep, saw fit to share this post with the infinite number of monkeys which constitutes PMT. I think the joke - unpretentious as it is - was probably worth sharing. 

The majority of them are American, of course, and missed the point in grand style. Much half-remembered WW2 mythology about what the US and British may have said (or believed?) about each other. I'm always pleased to welcome visitors from PMT, naturally, but it surprises me that, since they are the coolest dudes on the planet, visitors from these lofty heights never deign to leave a comment, or say hello - they simply go back to giggling behind the bikesheds amongst themselves. Yes it is depressing, but rock on anyway, Tango. Maybe your head will get better one day.

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